


Easel Fic

by simmyschtuff



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 11:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20599877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simmyschtuff/pseuds/simmyschtuff
Summary: Steve finds something that used to belong to him at an auction.





	Easel Fic

**Author's Note:**

> I've gotten a few emails asking for a copy of this, I figured I'd post it here for anyone still looking :)

Steve supposes Greensboro Auction's antique section should be surreal. Most of the knick knacks there -- worn and chipping at the edges, delicate with age-- are technically younger than him. There's even a few dated the decade he was born, day to day supplies, now kept behind glass and marked at ridiculous reserve prices. 

But honestly, he's just bored. None of the styles seem familiar, he feels no sense of connection with the endless piles of -- _stuff_. There's a few stabs of nostalgia. A Midnight Racer doll, a Green Hornet lunchbox, but other than that, the figures, the utensils, the signs, the plates, the mirrors, the cabinets. They're no more familiar to him than anyone else.

This is supposed to be a group activity, the Avengers Sponsored charity event! But Iron Man has some personal business, Hank's a no show, and Jan and Tony Stark are slowly meandering through the sizeable furniture section, Steve lost them almost immediately in the rows and rows of dulled woods and metal. Most of the pieces are dusty and gaudy, and Steve can see no rhyme or reason between the ones that the people gather around, murmuring, and the ones that are sneered at.

Steve walks past it twice in his half hearted attempt to find his two teammates, he's not sure what made him actually stop, take it in, but he does; freezes to a dead stop.

Numb as he moves toward it to double check, confirm, but he knows, knew the second he actually processed it, he has no doubt that the easel is -- was -- his. Still, he checks the backing board as soon as he reaches it. 

_Steven--_

_There is a bewtiful world thru your eyes   
I hope you share your vishon  
with this gift  
Happy birthday_

_Your Mother_

It's his easel. It's the easel he woke up and found sitting in his bedroom on his tenth fourth of July. 

It's his easel.

Steve's throat feels thick, and he blinks rapidly, blindsided by memories of a woman with a soft voice and calloused hands. He'd been thankful, of course, that morning all those years ago, but only now did he have real appreciation for how much she must've scrimped and saved to make that birthday a special one. Real appreciation for the woman she was.

Steve's taking this home -- he stares at the reserve price. Good lord, there's no way she spent that much.

"Something catch your--" Tony stops abruptly, eyes scanning the engraving, and Steve knows it's too late, and rather irrational, but he has to resist the urge to cover it with a protective hand; the spelling errors, the clumsy wording. His parents had been poor, uneducated, and well aware of it. His mother had pushed Steve hard be anything _but_ that, and he knows how flustered she would've been, her errors under the gaze of a _tippybob_ like Tony Stark.

Of course there's nothing to be worried about. Tony doesn't laugh, doesn't so much as smile. He seems almost touched, standing slightly straighter. "Your mother was a wise woman," he says.

Steve runs a hand across the top of the worn, time softened wood. He nods once. She had been. He takes another look at the reserve price, and it seems slightly less daunting. Which is a good thing, he's no more leaving this behind than his shield.

"I suggest we step away from it," Tony says, softly. Steve's about to ask why, when he notices a good portion of the milling crowd now giving sidelong glances to the antique Captain America had been fawning over.

He steps away and they immediately swarm, fingers running across it, tracing the engraving.

Steve forces himself to walk out of the room, and back to the signs and traffic and waving, because it would be very bad form for him to punch innocent bystanders at a charity auction.

*

"Good amount of interest in this next lot. Already have some bids in place," the auctioneer, a tiny man, with wide rimmed glasses, announces. Steve blanches; he hadn't thought to bid ahead of time. "Lot A-15, an artist's easel, circa 1920, in need of some repair, well used," there's a silence that seems to scream _used by Captain America_. "We'll start at four thousand."

Steve raises his number, along with about fifteen others. "Four-ten, four thousand five hundred. Five thousand, six thousand. Six five. Seven. Seven-five, seven thousand six hundred. Eight thousand," the auctioneer rattles off.

Steve watches the bidding war with the distinct impression of sinking, deeper and deeper into high waters. He stopped raising a good thousand dollars ago, and it's still going strong.

"Fifteen," a strong voice calls suddenly. The crowd collectively freezes, and turns to stare at Tony Stark, who's watching the auctioneer with a steady, collected gaze. There's a beat of silence.

"Fifteen. Do I hear fifteen-five?" The auctioneer calls out. His mother's hair would curl if she knew the amount of money being tossed around for this. A woman in the back raises a tentative card. "Fifteen-five."

"Twenty," Tony says flatly, eyeing the crowd like a dare.

"Twenty!" The auctioneer calls, sounding slightly giddy. "Going once, twice! Sold! Twenty-thousand dollars! Greensboro Orphanage certainly thanks you."

Twenty-thousand dollars.

*

Twenty-thousand dollars.

"Steve?"

"Twenty-thousand," he says.

"Consider it your birthday present," Tony says.

"_Twenty-thousand dollars_," Steve says.

" . . . And Christmas present," he adds.

"Tony, that's --"

"Are you happy you have it?"

"Tony -- "

"Are you glad that you have it, that someone else didn't get it?" Tony asks, more firmly, and Steve looks at the worn engraving.

"Yes," Steve says.

"Then just say, 'Thank you, Tony,'" Tony says, smiling like it's nothing. And maybe he's actually rich enough that it is, but still.

"I --" He grabs the other man, who squawks in surprise, in a hug that startled even himself. Consciously holding back from squeezing too hard, "Thank you, Tony."

*

Maria Stark was a gorgeous woman. Willowy, with ridiculously high cheekbones and the same piercing eyes as her son. Steve's pretty sure Tony takes more after her than his father, actually, the coloring and build are certainly similar. 

So it's Tony he watches for references in the hair and expression, it's that smile he tries to emulate; when his eyes narrow with pleasure, mouth slowly curling upward, almost mischievous, head slightly ducked. 

He never saw Maria Stark, in all the photographs and footage he dug up, smile that smile. He didn't expect to, though, it's a smile only given in private moments. It's a smile his gut tells him Tony got from her.

Steve's pretty sure he's right when Tony's eyes widen, mouth actually dropping. "Steve," he breathes, reaching out and touching the portrait tentatively. "This is--"

Steve smiles. "Say, 'thank you, Steve.'"


End file.
